


Too Good to be True (Evil)

by AlessaGreenwood



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fallen!Aziraphale, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2020-06-29 08:59:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19826827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlessaGreenwood/pseuds/AlessaGreenwood
Summary: Aziraphale falling was an inevitability. That didn't mean it wasn't going to hurt.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Some small notes:  
> 1\. I've never written Good Omens fanfic before but I've watched the show (about six times now) and fell in love with it. This is one of many works I've got going for it.  
> 2\. I sort of remember from somewhere that when an angel fell, they became 'a slithering/crawling beast upon the Earth'? I can't for the life of me find where I read that now but it's a strong fuzzy memory.  
> 3\. Aziraphale's coloring is based on the albino corn snake.  
> 4\. I like to imagine that after the Fall, Aziraphale walks about with rose-colored sunglasses.

As with the blaze that had burned the bookshop in Soho, Crowley wasn’t there at the start of it. It had begun just a little before he had returned home, to the flat that he and Aziraphale now shared. The angel had moved in with him sometime after the world had been reset, there was just so much more room for two there and Aziraphale did so love the little garden Crowley kept so meticulously. Crowley knew something was wrong the moment he opened the front door. A smell overtook his senses, pungent and powerful and terrifying familiar; brimstone.

“Aziraphale!?” Crowley shouted as he stumbled inside, his eyes going wide as he searched for any sign of his angel. Perhaps it had been due to the heartbeat pounding in his ears but it was only now did he register the sound of someone screaming. His legs could barely keep up with the urgency thrumming through him as he tore through the apartment towards the sound. It was in the bedroom where he found the source of both the stench and the screams. There, in the center of the room, was a wide, black hole, belching smoke and Hellfire. He could just make out the pale fingers clinging desperately to the edge from the inside.

_‘No. **No!** ’_ Shrieks of refusal clawed their way through his closing throat, unheard but felt deep in the demon’s gut. He lunged forward and grabbed hold of the hands clutching at the rim of the Hell pit. His shaded yellow stare met the wet, bleeding blue eyes of Aziraphale.

“Please, no, not this, _anything but this_ ,” Crowley gasped as he tried to pull Aziraphale up and out of the hole, but there was no way in Heaven or on Earth that he would be able to and he knew it. Tears ran from the corners of his eyes as he expended every last shred of strength he had in trying to raise Aziraphale. He could stop time, he could bend the laws of physics, he could kill or breathe life back into any mortal thing, but he could not prevent damnation.

“I can’t–” Crowley sobbed as he felt the grasp he had slip in his hands. Aziraphale closed eyes that were flooding over with celestial blood.

_“Crowley–”_ The falling angel whimpered before the pull was just too much for both of them to fight against. Crowley could only look on in horror as his grip failed, as his glowing angel plummeted into the black pits yawning wide below. Time seemed to stop entirely in that moment and he felt his soul crack apart.

With a roar so loud he had never expelled before Crowley threw back his head and cursed God with every fibre in his being. Then, with the fury of an avenging angel, he let loose his midnight wings and dematerialized to stand at the Gates of Hell.

This was not the common Hell, where the low demons slaved their eternities away. This was the Gate, the door to Beelzebub, Prince of Hell. Located deep below in a circle of Hell relegated only for demonic royalty. Fangs bared, Crowley kicked down the door to the Prince’s lair.

Sitting in a sleek, black executive chair at a large black desk in what appeared to be a secretary’s office was a notably stunned Dagon, who shot to his feet at the sudden intrusion. Fear was evident in the demon’s eyes as he took in the sight of Crowley, the demon who survived execution by Holy Water.

“Wh-what are y-you doing?!” The Lord of Files demanded with a wavering cadence. Crowley ripped the shades from his eyes and glared slitted daggers at Dagon. Dagon stumbled involuntarily back at the intensity of the unbridled rage directed at him.

“He’s here for the newly Fallen,” A deadpan voice called from a door to the left of the office. Both Dagon and Crowley turned their attentions to see Beelzebub standing there. With a snarl, Crowley turned on the Prince.

“Where is Aziraphale?” He growled. Beelzebub did not appear frightened of Crowley. They crossed their arms in front of their chest and met Crowley’s glare with one of their own.

“You know where he is,” Beelzebub replied flatly. Crowley responded by baring clenched fangs and taking a threatening step towards the Prince of Hell. Dagon startled and reached for a call button situated on his desk. Beelzebub raised a hand to stop Dagon, stilling the demon in his movements.

“Let’s talk, privately,” The Prince moved to one side of the doorway they stood in and beckoned Crowley forward. Crowley paused a moment, straightened to stand at his full height then strode forward into Beelzebub’s office.

The inside of the Lord of the Flies’ office was about as much as Crowley had imagined it to be. Deceptively large, dark, most of it was sunk in shadow. There was an ever-present buzzing from all around, the sound all the more unsettling as Crowley couldn’t detect exactly where it was coming from. Something reeked of sickly sweet rot and the floor was uncomfortably soft beneath his feet. With each step, his foot felt as if it had to be pried up from something like mud.

“Sit,” Beelzebub motioned to a low couch. Crowley did not budge from where he stood, opting rather to stand and glower. The Prince shrugged and a took a seat themselves behind their massive desk situated in one sparse patch of dim light.

“I will drown this place in holy water if you don’t hand him over,” Crowley hissed. Beelzebub quirked one eyebrow at the black winged demon, a glimmer of amusement in their otherworldly sheen. Again they motioned towards the low couch, urging Crowley to sit. Pursing his lips, annoyed, he stalked over and sat.

“You had to know this was coming, Crowley,” Beelzebub shook their head. “The Holy Council passed the motion to exile Aziraphale from Heaven after he survived his own execution by Hellfire. Not holy enough anymore in the eyes of God, or some such thing. He _had_ defied his superiors repeatedly and don’t think we haven’t learned about your involvement with him.” The muscle in Crowley’s left eye twitched, the only visible sign of his internal wince.

The truth was that Crowley had known, of course he had. He had known Aziraphale for six thousand years, he knew better than anyone how often the angel had lied to Heaven, not to mention how many miracles he’d spent on selfish gain. That was fine for a demon, it was just about expected for demons to act selfishly, but angels were meant to be altruistic. Crowley distantly remembered Aziraphale mentioning how he’d been reprimanded for performing too many frivolous miracles, just before he miracled his clothes in order to escape prison so they could go off and have a lunch of French crepes.

“The Dark Council has opted to expunge your records,” Beelzebub continued, a note of disapproval in their tenor. “After it was decided that you’ve been instrumental in an overwhelming number of outstanding evil acts on Earth only to surpass all of that by causing an angel to Fall, well, they saw your behavior as ultimately exemplary. Our Lord Lucifer has deigned to grant you a promotion, to Duke.”

“I don’t want it,” Crowley spat. The barest hint of a smile ticked at the corner of Beelzebub’s lips.

“No, I imagine what you want is the fallen angel currently suffering his divine punishment in the fiery pit,” They suggested. They stood from their seat and walked around their desk to stand before Crowley.

“Tell you what,” They tilted their head, feigning consideration. “I will give you the fallen Aziraphale, he’s bound to be a rubbish demon and I really don’t want to deal with training a freshly fallen angel. It takes centuries to get them to stop whining, if they ever do at all, and I just don’t have the patience for it.”

“How kind,” Crowley sneered. “What do I owe for such a generous favor?” Beelzebub grinned darkly.

“You will be in charge of seeing to him,” They returned. “He will be expected to perform the same temptations and spread the same malice you had. If he fails, he returns to me.”

And there it was, the offering of the contract. Terms discussed, expectations set, consequences laid out. Crowley would have to see to it that Aziraphale sowed evil into the world, a concept so ridiculous to the demon that it was difficult not to scoff at it. Twisting Aziraphale into some wicked thing would prove to be utterly impossible but he had to try. The choices he faced were either leave Aziraphale to the bone-melting fires of Tartarus or take him under his wing. To Crowley that meant there were no choices.

“Right,” Crowley stood and looked down into the Prince’s eyes. “I approve of the terms.”

With a snap of their fingers, a clipboard bearing a long parchment covered in paragraphs of tiny print appeared in Beelzebub’s hand. They held out the clipboard for Crowley. With grim acceptance, he scratched his signature in Hellfire. Contract signed, Beelzebub turned and pressed a button on their desk. Static crackled before the channel opened.

“Dagon, have Duke Crowley escorted to the pits. He’s got something to pick up before heading topside,” The Prince instructed. They closed the channel with another press of the button. They motioned for Crowley to follow and led him to the door.

“Report in with his new name once you’ve chosen it,” They nodded once in acknowledgment at the pair of demonic guards waiting just outside in Dagon’s office for Crowley. Crowley opened the door but hesitated a moment before leaving.

“Zira,” He replied. “His name is Zira.” Beelzebub turned and wrote the name on the parchment Crowley had signed. With that, Crowley left the Lord of Flies’ office and followed the two grunts out to a large wrought-iron elevator. His stomach lurched as the lift screeched its descent. He clenched his fists at his sides in an attempt to get his hands to stop trembling. Fear still coursed through him only now he was awash with a wave of anxiety as he could only imagine what state he would find Aziraphale in.

Screams of the damned soon drowned out the sound of metal scraping against metal as they approached the pits. Crowley despised this level of Hell; it wasn’t as if he had a particularly favored level of the accursed plane but memories of his own Fall felt raw and open in the setting. The place stank of charred flesh, burning hair and sulfur. He summoned a pair of sunglasses to slip over his eyes, the undulating glare from the fires hurt his sensitive sense of sight.

Crowley heard him long before he saw anything. He had learned to distinguish the sound of Aziraphale’s voice ages ago and it was clawing a hole through his heart to hear it raised to such an anguished pitch. Throwing caution and care to the wind, he dashed around his escorts to rush towards the tortured sound. He had to choke back the tears that threatened to fall once he came upon the sight of his beloved angel. His brilliant white wings were broken in a few places, Crowley could tell, one of which had the bone snapped in an unnatural direction, sticking out at a ninety-degree angle. The stench of smoldering feathers mixed with that of celestial blood began to overpower the scent of Aziraphale himself, still bright and fresh and angelic. That wouldn’t last for too much longer, Crowley knew.

In a flash of unnatural speed Crowley kicked off from the ground to fly up and over the pit. He hovered low, just above Aziraphale, and carefully pulled him up and out of the boiling brimstone into his arms. Aziraphale’s flesh was raw, red and bubbling and felt far too soft beneath Crowley’s touch, like the meat of a slow-roasted beast made to be easily stripped from bones and devoured. Perhaps it was a trick of the light pulsing about them but Crowley thought he was seeing pale, pink-yellow toned scales creeping up the sides of Aziraphale’s throat, at the fallen angel’s temples to disappear beneath the white curls atop his head. He’d investigate further later, for now he needed to take Aziraphale as far from this place as he could, as quickly as he could.

The moment Aziraphale had been pulled free from the pool his screaming ebbed and he fell limp in Crowley’s embrace. The strength in him was little more than a memory, he felt boneless and loose against Crowley’s chest. His head was tilted back, his mouth open and slack and bleeding. Crowley gripped him a little tighter, then with a single powerful beat of his wings he raised them heavenward.


	2. Chapter 2

The Hell pit was gone by the time Crowley returned to his Earthly home with Aziraphale clutched close to his chest. The bedroom was once again whole, the large king-sized bed sat against the door facing wall unburnt, unbroken, black sheets pulled tightly over the mattress as if it had been made just this morning. Crowley ever so gently laid Aziraphale atop it then took a step back to assess his fallen angel’s condition. As bad as it was it could have been so much worse had Crowley not stormed the Gates of Hell immediately after watching Aziraphale fall. Some angels who fell endured torment for incalculable ages, burning apart only to be pieced together so they could be torn asunder once more. Crowley couldn’t quite recall how long he himself had burned, the experience of a thing always altered the amount of time that truly passed in the minds of those who suffered. He knew in the end it wouldn’t matter how much time passed, time was an immaterial concept that had no bearing on the severity of pain.

If one asked those who didn’t know any better most would say that demons were incapable of healing. This, of course, is wrong. Demons, by nature, are master manipulators who have the power to grant wishes, to deliver upon the desires of those who were most desperate and therefore easy to corrupt. It was the story of the well-meaning princess who gave away her firstborn in order to assure her own place at court, the father who promised the child in exchange for the fruit his wife so desperately craved. Demons were perfectly capable of healing wounds as long as the sufferer promised their grateful soul as payment for the easing of their agonies.

The damage caused by Hellfire was not something Crowley could reverse, those injuries would have to heal with time, but he could repair the broken body. His deft, slender fingers worked the kinks out of Aziraphale’s mangled wings, straightening the bones and soothing the scorched feathers. He hesitated in laying his hands back upon Aziraphale’s marred flesh, the skin would be oversensitive for a while, but he needed to see the extent of the wounds. He was also very curious about what he thought he’d saw were scales just a few scant moments ago.

As gently as he was able, Crowley tucked Aziraphale’s wings and moved them so he could survey his back. True enough there were pale pink scales running the line of Aziraphale’s neck and down, following the curvature of his spine. Crowley could make out a small, nearly imperceptible mark of a coiling serpent draped in stark white around the nape. It appeared raised, like an old scar.

Crowley’s fingers traced the fresh mark lightly, reverently. The crawling thing Aziraphale became upon his Fall was a snake.

It really shouldn’t have been a surprise to Crowley, and in truth it really wasn’t, but the image made him want to scream all the same. Heaven had dared desecrate his angel with his own mark, to tell the universe that it was Anthony J Crowley’s fault that this ethereal being had been cast out. It was a slap in the face, a knife to the gut. _‘You did this,’_ It said. _'He Fell because of you. He paved his path with good intentions and you held the doors of Hell open for him.’_

As he moved to pull his hand away he felt a sudden stirring from Aziraphale. Crowley looked down to see pale brows upon a blistered countenance scowling, cherubic lips pulled in for teeth to bite down on. Crowley tenderly touched the side of Aziraphale’s face, just over the new pearlescent scales, a consoling gesture to let the consciousness awakening know he wasn’t alone. Slowly, eyes fused shut from caked blood, sweat and tears pulled apart and opened. Without moving his head, Aziraphale turned his gaze to look up at Crowley. Crowley felt another stab in his metaphorical heart as he looked down into pink, slitted eyes.

“Crow–?” Aziraphale’s throat closed in around the name, cutting it short. It sounded dry and hollow in his tongue.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. A fallen angel was meant to wake angry and despairing, fueled with rage and hatred for the God who threw them aside, not like this. Not with love and concern upon their cracked and bleeding lips, not with adoration and need in beastly eyes. Crowley broke.

“I’m sorry, _**I’m so sorry,**_ ” The demon cried and fell to his knees upon the mattress of the bed, causing Aziraphale to shift and turn onto his back. Crowley heard the sharp inhalation of breath sucked in through clenched teeth and immediately regretted his collapse. Sobs wracked his thin form and no matter how much he wanted to stop, to be the strength and anchor he knew Aziraphale would need, he could not halt the flow of tears. _“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”_ His litany of remorse was brought up short when he felt a hand reach up and gently cup his wet cheek.

Aziraphale was looking up at him with a tenderness that should not have been capable for a freshly fallen angel, as if the goodness in him had not been burned away. He plucked the dark glasses from Crowley’s face with a shaky hand and let the pair fall between them, to lay nestled between Crowley’s boney knee and Aziraphale’s thick thigh. Wincing with the movement, he reached up with both hands to cradle Crowley’s face and shakily wiped the tears away. Crowley keened, high in the back of his throat, at the touch.

Crowley couldn’t take it, he couldn’t bear the benevolence granted him and he snapped his fingers. Aziraphale’s hands dropped to the bed and his rosy eyes went glassy.

“Sleep now,” Crowley commanded around the lump in his throat. He moved up to his feet, snatched his discarded sunglasses and replaced them over his eyes. As gingerly as he could manage, he repositioned Aziraphale on the bed, turning him to lay on his ample stomach. He’d considered dressing him in something soft, comfortable, but the flesh needed to heal and breathe. The damage would repair itself within days, inhuman regeneration factors considering, and Crowley mused on the prospect of keeping Aziraphale unconscious for that entire time. If he could spare him any moment of pain then he would.

For now, however, Crowley was going to be selfish. He was going to keep Aziraphale unconscious, both as a means to prevent him from having to experience the healing period as well as giving Crowley himself some time to wallow in grief. He needed this time to mourn properly because once Aziraphale was healed he was going to have to explain a lot, in particular the bit about making the fallen angel perform atrocities in order to avoid being sent back to Hell. Swallowing hard, Crowley turned to seek out his wine cabinet.


	3. Chapter 3

Sometime after the fourth bottle of wine Crowley had fallen asleep. He’d never been too particular about where he took his naps, less so when drunk off his ass, so having ended up crumpled over in a heap on the floor of his study was about as comfortable as he would have been nearly anywhere else in the flat. His mind was still hazy with sleep when he heard the screaming. Once registered for what it was, he sat bolt upright and pushed up off the floor just to crash up against the wall. Cursing the blasted physical plane, he threw himself out of his study and ran down the hall into the bedroom.

There he found Aziraphale writhing on the bed, one wing pinned beneath him, his head tossed back as he wailed in anguish. Crowley was immediately on him, taking him into his arms and freeing the one pinned wing. Aziraphale clung to Crowley as he gasped out sobs and shuddered in the demon’s grasp. Crowley lightly ran the fingers of one hand over Aziraphale’s naked flesh in an attempt to soothe. Most of the raw, red welts staining the pale expanse were beginning to fade but Crowley knew the emotional scars would never heal. If he had any say in it he would do whatever he could to prevent them from festering, as they had for him. As they still do.

“I’m here, angel,” Crowley murmured into white curls. He winced at the endearment ushered from his lips. He wouldn’t be able to call Aziraphale that anymore, would he? Looking down at the cherubic face pressed against his chest, something told him nothing could ever stop it. Perhaps Heaven had damned Aziraphale but no soul in the universe could be called angel if not him.

With a snap, Crowley summoned a damp pestemal to his hand. He gently urged Aziraphale to lift his head and began to carefully dab at the dried blood around his eyes. A pang of guilt shot through him when Aziraphale opened those eyes for him, those pink snake eyes that mirrored his own serpentine gaze. Crowley meticulously cleaned away the filth then turned his attention to the scales peppered down and across Aziraphale’s scalp and neck. Now that he had a better vantage he could see that the snakeskin alternated between two or three hues of pale pink and white. Even now, as an embodiment of evil, Aziraphale was beautiful, perhaps moreso with skin that virtually glimmered in the colors of clouds barely touched by the fingers of early dawn.

“Do you–” Crowley began quietly, his voice hesitant and soft. “Do you remember anything?” There was a momentary flash of confusion in Aziraphale’s eyes before memories he had almost convinced himself were nightmares flooded his consciousness. There Crowley found the break in Aziraphale’s spirit, the understanding and overwhelming hopelessness dulling the rosy stare. Aziraphale slumped against Crowley and ducked his head under the demon’s chin and another piece of Crowley’s heart snapped off and shattered at the sound of Aziraphale crying, the feel of him shaking and gasping and falling apart. Even having expected this eventuality, Crowley wasn’t entirely sure what to do. He wanted to give Aziraphale both comfort as well as the freedom to express his suffering, he did and didn’t want to stop his tears. Aziraphale had every right to be despondent.

Crowley closed his eyes and thought. What would he have wanted upon waking from his Fall? The visions of his tragedy returned afresh, bringing with them an unbidden whimper. He had felt betrayed, hated, tossed aside. Unimportant, unwanted. He remembered screaming for an imagined eternity before his mind turned to apathetic acceptance. Pain, he thought. He had wanted to inflict pain.

“Strike me,” He pulled Aziraphale away from him and looked down into wet eyes. “Hit me, hard as you can.”

Aziraphale glared hard into Crowley’s gaze and vehemently shook his head. Instead, he wrapped his arms tightly around Crowley’s middle and pressed as hard as he could against him. Nails sharper than he’d ever worn before dug into and through Crowley’s shirt, eliciting a hiss from the demon.

_’Don’t do this,’_ Crowley screamed internally. _'Fight me, hate me, hate the whole sodding universe, **don’t do this.’**_

Crowley once again felt Aziraphale shaking against him but there were no gasping sobs now. He slithered his arms around Aziraphale in turn, clutching him close. With the barest breath of a touch he traced eternity between the fallen angel’s shoulder blades, between the pristine white wings.

“I’m sorry,” Crowley whispered against scales and silken hair. Aziraphale shook his head once more.

“No,” He replied, his voice hoarse and high, like rough wind through a rusted pipe. “I fell, my dear. You didn’t pull me down.”

Crowley could not swallow the thin, reedy whine that escaped through grit teeth. Demons weren’t meant to be forgiving, they were damning, accusing. A pit opened in Crowley’s gut, deeper and burning hotter than anything Hell boasted. How was he ever going to get a fallen angel who delivers absolution to do evil? The threat of losing Aziraphale again loomed over him like swollen stormclouds, ready to release a flood so strong and encompassing that Crowley would not survive it. Beelzebub was right, Aziraphale was going to be a rubbish demon and he would suffer for it.


	4. Chapter 4

It took three days before Aziraphale was able to once again veil his wings into the ether. The things were inconvenient to keep out for long and he was relieved when he had control over their manifestation again. That same day was the first of him seeing himself since his transformation from holy being to an unholy one. He had left the bedroom with the intention of seeking out a soothing bath when he came upon the large wall-length mirror in the bathroom. He’d startled and stumbled backward against the wall as he took in his new reflection. With slow, cautious steps he approached the mirror and laid his fingers on the glass.

The most notable change for him was his eyes. Once as blue as the sky hung over Heaven, now pink and slitted. Crowley had not mentioned that change, nor had he mentioned the scales that clung to the edges of Aziraphale’s face and hairline. Aziraphale tenderly prodded his skin, in awe of the deviation from the form he had known for six thousand years.

Crowley had mentioned other things, more important things than cosmetic changes. Aziraphale knew his name was different now but the old one still stuck to his tongue. It would take some time to acclimate to the change but he was confident he would get used to it.

In truth, it was his new set of responsibilities that were proving to be the hardest to accept. He was one of the Fallen, a demon, and he would be expected to act accordingly. His job on Earth was relatively the same as it had been before, only now he was to lure out the darkness in human hearts. The thought didn’t sit well but Crowley had warned him of the consequences. Meet Hell’s expectations or be sent back to the depths. Aziraphale took the threat quite seriously.

“You’re stunning, stop that,” Crowley spoke from the doorway, catching Zira’s attention. The blond dropped the hand hovering at his temple and turned to face Crowley.

Crowley moved fast, fluid, until he was standing behind Zira and wrapped his arms around him. He splayed black-tipped fingers over the fallen angel’s thick stomach, running his nails over the little rolls of flesh to rest upon full hips. A giggle bubbled up from Zira at the ticklish little touches.

“Demons don’t giggle, angelcake,” Crowley murmured into Zira’s curls. Zira smirked up at him, the expression fond and teasing reflected in the mirror.

“You do when you’re drunk, my dear,” He retorted, his tone smug. Crowley failed to hide the smile pulling at the edges of his lips.

Crowley knew his work would be cut out for him. He knew Zira could be condescending, rude, selfish and a liar, he knew he was far too indulgent, a bit of a glutton and a bit more of a bastard. Not exactly a dark force conjured from the underworld but Crowley hoped that with his influence he had a chance just outside of Hell to keep going on for his eternity as who he always was and perhaps giving a demon hope was just enough of a sin to start Zira off on the right foot.


End file.
